User blog:Thantosiet/Power Rangers: Lost Ninjas/Episode 13: Word on the Street
Last time we saw the Earthlight Rangers... Reaching the home of their former Sensei's brother, the Rangers were nearly captured by Dr. Mesmer, but Wyatt managed to break his hypnotic spell, and they destroyed the monster. February 7th, Palencia, Belize, 7:30 pm Micky darted down a narrow alley, and flipped open the wallet he'd just grabbed. The skinny fifteen-year-old grinned, digging out all the loose cash in the thing. The ID and credit cards could go to Gonzales, and Lupe'd pay for a nice wallet like this. Micky loved tourists. Quickly, he pulled out the brick in the side of the crumbling building and hid the wallet and cards in the gap. Micky's stomach growled, and he counted the money. He sighed. Just a few dollars short of a decent supper. He wadded up the crisp new bills and tucked them into the pocket of his ragged grey shorts, along with the change. Then he slipped out the other side of the alley, and began casually looking around for another target. A gorgeous sunset streaked the sky, and tourists strolled up and down the streets of old Palencia. Micky kept his head down, whistling a little. He glanced at passing clusters of people out from under the bill of his red baseball cap, mentally listing them off as good or bad targets. He was getting closer to the docks where the cruise ships stopped, so the good targets got thicker—but Micky kept getting suspicious looks, so he kept his hands to himself. There was a little tamales stand around the corner. Micky didn't even consider stealing from it: last time he'd gotten a beating with a wooden spoon and a fierce tongue lashing. The old lady running it was surprisingly strong. As Micky decided to go collect all of today's finds, he noticed a cluster of teenagers buying several tamales. A calculating smile crossed his face, and he ambled towards them as they headed back towards the waterfront. "You're sure this is the right place?" One of the boys, small and with a raggedy beard, asked in English. "Positive," the one girl replied. "Our contact should be here any minute." "Why does the security have to be so tight?" The last teen, a fair-haired boy, asked. "Don't they know you?" "After what's just happened to the school, I don't blame them." They reached a bench on the waterfront and sat down. As the older girl started trying to coax the toddler into eating something, Micky crept up to the bench. A few quick snatches and he was juggling four hot tamales. Scrambling back to a safe corner behind a dumpster, Micky ate them as quickly as he could. He burned his tongue, but didn't even care. Biting into the last of the tamales, Micky felt something crinkle between his teeth. Confused, he pulled it out and looked at the tamale. A little wad of plastic-wrapped paper stuck out of it, smeary with sauce. That was weird. Pulling it out, he tucked it into his pocket and scarfed down the rest of the stolen food. As Micky licked brownish sauce off his fingers, he heard angry voices. Looking around, he saw the bearded kid was arguing with the other two. Micky chuckled a little, but then the girl looked up and locked eyes with him. Micky froze, fingers still in his mouth. The girl sprang up, and as she did, Micky snapped back into action. He bolted, hearing shouts and running footsteps behind him. After a lot of running, sliding down alleys so narrow Micky had to turn sideways, and ducking into crowds, Micky decided he'd lost them. With a sigh of relief, he straightened his cap, and decided to call it a day. As he stood, he thought he glimpsed a pink flutter out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look, he saw nothing. It didn't take long for Micky to loop through the city and collect his stolen goods. He knew exactly where everything was, and unfortunately, today there were only three worthwhile finds. Stuffing them into his pockets, Micky decided it was late enough to risk going home. When he thought he heard footsteps, Micky laughed it off, telling himself he was getting paranoid. Micky's house sat right on the water, a sagging, moldy building that creaked when the wind blew too strongly. The city lights blotted out the stars, casting yellow shadows on the inky harbor water, but barely penetrating the skinny streets. Winding his way up the uneven road, Micky listened for voices. A dog pack was barking somewhere, and he shivered a little and sped up. Someone's baby was crying, and elsewhere a couple was having a fierce argument in Spanish. His house, though, was dark and silent, to Micky's relief. The climb up the wooden siding took almost no time at all, even though Micky froze at each creak. Reaching the attic window, he slithered inside. There, he drew out the stolen wallets and money, and laid them out on a moth-eaten quilt. The wallets went in the dresser drawer, the loose change inside an old coin purse—it was starting to burst at the seams now—and the bills behind the backing of a broken armchair. Micky froze at the first few thumps he heard, but when nothing came of them, dismissed it as the house. An unmistakable thud boomed up the stairs, and the window rattled shut. Springing to his feet, Micky began pulling the window back open. Footsteps tramped up the stairs as he forced the rusty thing open and jumped out. His fingers slipped on the warped wood, and he fell to the street. A sharp pain shot up his ankle as he landed, and Micky cried out. As he scrambled to his feet and stumbled, the front door of the house slammed open. Micky tried to run, but his ankle gave out immediately. As he scrambled away, a slurred, angry shout rang out. A huge hand came down on the back of his neck, yanking Micky around. "Where have you been?" The tall, balding man roared in Micky's face, blasting him with hot beer-soured breath. "No, Dad, please, I'm sorry—" Micky begged, but a fist slammed into his face, and he fell back. He scraped his hands catching himself on the rocky street. He felt blood running down the back of his throat from his nose, and threw up his arms to shield himself. The next blow slammed into his stomach, knocking all the wind out of him. Micky's dad yelled something at him, but Micky couldn't tell what—aside from a string of profanities. He curled up, but his Dad just slammed a boot into his back, flattening him against the road. Sobbing, Micky shielded his head with his arms and hoped his father was drunk enough to get tired quickly this time. A kick to the gut made him cough convulsively. Then the shouting stopped abruptly. Micky lowered one arm, and stared. A woman clad in pink spandex and what looked like a motorcycle helmet held his father's upraised wrist. A white flame emblem was emblazoned on her chest, and a katana was strapped to her hip. The drunk man just stared at her in amazement. When she spoke, her voice trembled with anger. "I'd leave him alone if I were you." Micky's father's face darkened. "Hands off, he's mine and I can do whatever I want to him." "If you lay so much as a finger on him again you'll have me to answer to. Got it?" The stranger gave Micky's father a shove towards the house, and he fled. Drunk or not, he knew this wasn't someone to mess with. Micky recoiled as the stranger crouched beside him. This time, she spoke gently. "Are you okay?" "Yeah, sure," Micky said, coughing and touching the blood pouring out of his nose. Then the stranger tried to help him up, and he remembered his ankle with a yelp. "Ow! No!" The stranger started feeling his ankle. Micky, seeing that she felt sorry for him, made no attempt to hide the little whimpers of pain as she prodded his injuries. "You stole something earlier today," she said, as she worked. Micky almost laughed. She'd have to be a little more specific. Realizing he might not want to admit that, he kept his mouth shut. "Food. Did you find anything odd in it?" "What if I did? Why's it matter?" Micky retorted. "It's important. If you kept it, you could be in danger," she said. Micky drew himself up. "You threatening me?" "No, I'm not the one you need to worry about. Please," she held out her hand, "Give it to me." Micky folded his arms. "What's in it for me?" The stranger looked up at him, the oily street light reflecting off her black visor. She didn't say anything for a long minute. Micky didn't flinch—though he realized if she really wanted to take the thing away from him, she probably could. "Five hundred dollars." "Six." She started, and Micky added, "If I don't tell you where it is, you'll never be able to find it." "Fine. Six hundred." She held out her hand. "Money first," Micky snapped, holding out his own. She sighed. "I don't have pockets in this, and I don't have that much with me anyway. Your ankle's broken. I'll take you to the emergency room and bring the money after I drop you off, okay?" "Okay." Good, he'd probably be able to con a nurse into giving him somewhere to stay after he got better—for a little while, anyway. The stranger scooped him up in her arms, showing that she was stronger than she looked, and in a burst of flashing lights and wind, they stood in front of a hospital. Micky rested his head against her shoulder and shut his eyes. February 8th, Kai House, Belize, 8:30 am The dining room door opened, and Jess walked inside, holding up the plastic-wrapped message triumphantly. Wyatt whooped through a mouthful of sausage, and Mr. Kai looked relieved. "What took you so long?" Rat asked. "Our greedy little friend wanted to make sure I wasn't giving him counterfeits," Jess replied, sitting down beside Wyatt. He passed her a plate of sausages, and she began serving herself. "But, we have our secret message, and I think a good underground contact in case we need one. I'm going to keep an eye on him anyway, just in case." "That's not all," Mr. Kai said, holding up a newspaper. Rat snatched it out of his hands and looked it over, quickly handing it to Wyatt and Jess. The headline declared "Power Rangers in Palencia?" Below it was a black-and-white photo of Jess in front of the Emergency Room, morphed. "Yeah, some reporters had showed up by the time I got back," Jess said, setting the paper down. "Hopefully people will start getting ready for monster attacks—" "Can you please open the message?" Wyatt interrupted. "Right." Jess peeled off the plastic wrap, and unrolled the scrap of paper. Clearing her throat, she read, "Earthlight—your Zords are ready. Come to 115 Tito Street tonight at 8:00." "Finally!" Wyatt threw up his arms, accidentally knocking over his glass of orange juice. Rat quickly righted it. "How do we know that kid didn't swap out the message?" "This was typed." Jess passed him the message. "I saw where he lives; trust me, even if he knows how, he doesn't have anything to type with." "So maybe he's got friends in low places." "Fine, we'll be careful," Jess said. "You don't have to come if you don't want to." "Are you kidding? Nobody else is ever going to touch my Zord." "You have some serious trust issues, Rat," Jess said, rolling the message up again. "That's because all anybody ever does is try to take advantage of me!" Xumara's Ship, Palencia Airspace, 8:47 am Standing in front of her console, Xumara smiled as Jess and Rat argued. She only had a few views of the dining room, having hidden most of the nanocams in more important rooms of the mansion, but she'd heard enough. "115 Tito Street," she said. "This should be entertaining. I think it's time to let Zart out to play again." Category:Blog posts